


Before, During, After

by Jenett



Category: England Series - K. J. Charles, Proper English - K. J. Charles, Think of England - K. J. Charles
Genre: F/F, House Party, Investigations, M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-15
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:28:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21799897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jenett/pseuds/Jenett
Summary: Meeting Fen Carruth entirely changed Pat Merton's life for the better.That they get to solve mysteries together is a delightful bonus.(Pat's experiences before, during, and after the events ofThink of England)
Relationships: Archie Curtis/Daniel da Silva, Fenella Carruth/Patricia Merton
Comments: 26
Kudos: 77
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	Before, During, After

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dreamsofoceans](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreamsofoceans/gifts).



## Before

"Your father really has been a good sport about all of it." Pat stretched and worked on undoing her jacket. Fen had dragged them both back up to her bedroom, as soon as the last students had been seen off down the driveway. 

"The shooting school? Well, of course Daddy has. It kept me out of trouble, and even better, from his point of view, made it quite challenging for me to go getting engaged again. And he can go off and do whatever it is he's doing about the telephone installations, which he would much rather be thinking about." Fen flung herself down on the bed, in a riot of ruffled petticoats that went everywhere. "And now they're all gone. Daddy's away for at least another fortnight. What shall we do with ourselves?"

"Well. We could get an invite for a shooting party, somewhere." They had, in fact, scheduled the school so that Pat could accept such an invitation if one were offered. 

"And you'd like that, darling Pat, so we shall do that, if one is on offer. Though not, I hope, tonight. I've scarcely had a minute with you in private while you've had all your students flocking around you. A woman might get quite jealous." 

Pat tilted her head. "Jealous?" The thought hadn't even occurred to her. "Are you actually jealous?" She sat down on the bed beside Fen, reaching out a hand and then withdrawing it. 

A moment later, Fen grabbed at her, lacing her fingers through Pat's, and laughed. "Not actually." 

Pat snorted. "Well, good. None of them were near as sharp as you are."

"What was going on with Florence yesterday? She's the one your friend Louisa knew, wasn't she?" 

That had been quite an intense conversation, and Pat paused, not sure where to start with it. "Louisa thought it would be good for Florence to get out of the house. A difficult marriage, you can fill in enough of the rest."

"But she was an awful shot." 

Pat shook her head. Not that Florence had been good. None of her students had been as quick as Fen to pick up the technique, she'd been quite spoiled there. But Florence had taken nearly the entire fortnight before she was unlikely to be a danger to anyone within range. "That wasn't the thing she needed to learn, I think." 

"Oh?" Fen was being quite distracting, now, lounging back on the pillows in a way that put her quite glorious bosom firmly on display. Or not firmly, that was rather the point. 

"If you want answers, you, stop rolling around on the bed like that." Fen grinned up at her, all smiles and rosy cheeks and dancing eyes. One of her ringlets had escaped from where it was pinned, and was draping over her cheek now, and Pat reached to tuck it out of the way, before continuing. "Awful marriage, a controlling husband. But he likes going to shooting parties, and Florence - and Louisa - convinced him that if Florence came to this, she'd be better able to appreciate the sport." 

"That's quite clever of them."

"Mostly, clever of Louisa. Florence, poor thing, knows she's in an awful situation, but there's not much she can do about it." 

"Adultery isn't his problem, then?" Fen's voice had taken on the edge it did when she was thinking hard, and the sound made Pat thrill. 

"Oh, it likely is, but she can't prove it. He's very careful. The sort of careful that makes it clear he's hiding something." 

"So what were you talking to her about, then?"

"I suggested that if she could let me know - through Louisa, the man at least permits her to have tea with Louisa when they're in town - when they're invited somewhere we could get an invitation, we might manage to do something about it."

Fen lifted up on her elbow, making her bosom even more distracting. She was doing it at least partly on purpose, Pat knew. "Catch him out in the adultery? That feels rather sordid." 

"I don't mind what people do in their private lives, but making other people miserable with it is just not on. Plenty of people go off and have affairs, or live rather separate lives, or what have you, without needing to make their wife directly miserable as a matter of course." 

Fen snorted. "Oh, there's a letter in your room. From Bill. Probably also Jimmy." 

Pat immediately stood up. "Let me go fetch that, then we can see about the rest of the evening."

****

"What do you mean blackmail?" Fen pushed herself up on one elbow. They were in a wing near enough on their own, at a shooting party. "That lovely Madeline Appleby? What could she have done that someone could possibly blackmail her for?"

"I gather she was born the daughter of a miner and a music hall singer. And she's done a bit of theatrical work herself, before she was a lady's companion." Madeline Appleby, now, was a lovely young woman, well-dressed, well-spoken, and very much in love with a young man Bill knew, a civil servant named Phillip Morton who was poised to do well for himself. "The blackmailer is threatening to tell Mr. Morton's elderly aunt, who is the one person who could squash the thing."

Fen frowned. "That makes no sense. There's no shame in being born working class. Look at Daddy, and now he's got a knighthood."

"Money makes up for breeding, if there's enough money. But Madeline's not that well off. Just enough for pretty dresses."

"That's no good." Fen frowned, then said, "We're helping her, of course." 

Pat smiled. "I said I'd talk to you, and we'd come up with a plan."

"As we should. I will need to be properly clever."

Pat leaned down to kiss Fen's hair. "I am certain you will. Let's go for a walk, and I'll tell you what I know."

***

Pat came through the passage between their rooms, her dressing gown pulled around her. It always made her feel sharp-edged and point, but it was warm, and silk, and Fen insisted the deep burgundy colour flattered her immensely. She had been reading another letter from Bill, and she decidedly wanted Fen's opinion. 

"Fen, Bill wondered...." Pat's voice trailed off. Fen was reclining on the bed, looking entirely like a sybaritic Venus, wearing something silky and draping. Pat didn't even know what you called that. 

"Wondered what? Come here, darling. I've sent Travers off for the night." Travers knew perfectly well what her mistress got up to, and a good thing too. It was one thing to cloak what they were in Pat being Fen's companion and sometimes stern chaperone, but it was quite another to hide it from Travers. These days, she quite approved of Pat, not least because it gave her quite a lot of scope and reasons to talk to staff in the houses they were visiting. 

"There's something queer going on at a house, and Bill's not sure what. He wondered if we could wrangle ourselves an invitation and get the lay of the land." 

"Is it his bureau asking or Bill?" 

"Bill. Mostly. But there's some odd gossip. Bill wants to know if there's anything in it." 

"Huh." Fen rolled over onto her stomach. "What sort of people?" 

"Lord and Lady Armstrong, and he's got a son - she's rather younger - and they often have other people staying. Quite often, Bill says, though the house is rather remote, I gather." She glanced up. "Near as remote as Roddington Court, thankfully, but not so easily cut off by a torrential rain." 

"Good. I'd much rather not do that again." Fen pursed her lips, and Pat settled on the end of the bed, so as not to disrupt the thought in progress. "Daddy put in the telephone exchange there. Peakholme. Sir Hubert and Lady Sophie? Sophia. Something like that." She looked delighted to have remembered the name. "They redid rather a lot of the house and grounds, Daddy said. All the latest things. Imported redwoods." 

Pat nodded, and turned her attention back to the letter. "The son, James Armstrong. Oxford, not Cambridge, but Bill knows him a bit from one of his clubs. But that's where he started hearing the rumours." 

"What sorts of things? Do come sit here, Pat, you're far too far away over there." 

Pat shook her head, and rearranged herself, shrugging off the dressing gown, and settling into what had become her side of the bed. "People changing decisions. Or at least backing off of them. A lot of them around Bill's age, give or take a couple of years. You know he's a terrier with patterns." 

"That's why they keep him." Fen added, after a moment. "Is this an urgent sort of thing?" 

"Oh, no. At least he doesn't think so. The question is how to get ourselves invited up." 

"Tell me about this James Armstrong" Fen had a speculative gleam in her eye. 

"Not at all your type, I gather. All boxing and manly sports." 

"Ugh, no. Not that it's not fun to watch, sometimes, but I'm not sure I want to live with that. Shooting's quite another thing. That takes skill and precision." 

Pat leaned over to kiss her cheek. "You don't need to persuade me. Or rather, you don't need to, but if you're up for a round of it..." 

"Does this James go to town occasionally?" 

"Well, that's where Bill sees him in the club, so I presume so." 

"Get Bill to see if he can arrange something. Lunch in the ladies dining room, or whatever the thing is called." 

Pat nodded, and then set the letter aside. "Are you intending to persuade, then?" 

"I might exert myself."

"Before you do, there's a lovely chatty letter from Madeline, and she's very much looking forward to the wedding, even if they can't quite invite us directly."

"'These are the lovely women who saved me from a spot of blackmail' doesn't really quite work as an introduction, no. But you'll come with me to buy them a decadent sort of present, won't you?" 

Pat hated shopping, but for this, she would let Fen drag her around every shop in London.

## During

"At least your room is right next door, Pat." 

Pat was looking at the proportions of the rooms, feeling there was something odd about the whole thing, but unable to put her finger on it. They'd arrived not long after lunch. Travers had escorted one of the staff up with a tray of sandwiches. Then she'd briskly put away Fen's dresses, and was now dealing just as promptly with Pat's, with the little jerks of movement that suggested she had not approved overmuch of something below stairs. There were other staff in and out, so Pat could neither relax, nor Fen ask her. Not at the moment, anyway. 

"Here, come help with my hair, would you?" 

Pat came over, and murmured. "You know I'm hopeless." 

"Oh, I just meant to let it down and brush it. Travers can pin it up before we go down." 

"Well, then." Pat paused, and then murmured. "What do you think so far?" 

Fen inclined her head, and said back, just as quietly. "Not now, I think, Pat dear." 

Pat frowned, trying to figure out what made Fen suggest that. "Well." Then she swallowed, and did her best to make idle small talk until they were ready to go down. 

The party were a rather mixed bunch. Lord and Lady Armstrong. His son, James, who they'd wrangled the invitation from. Pat had learned, when they had lunch with Bill to be briefed on what he knew, that there had been an older son, Martin, who'd died in the Sudan, and who had apparently been the apple of his father's eye. James didn't have much of a reputation for anything other than boxing. Pat hadn't been able to tell if Bill were disapproving because of his preferences in the boxing, or because of something else. 

James Armstrong had a friend from university staying with him, and Peter Holt was rather worse than James, both of them expecting Fen to dimple and giggle. Not that Fen wasn't doing a fabulous job at both, she always managed to make it look easy. It left Pat to look mildly disapproving, which suited her. No one asked about her particular attachment to Fen, which was convenient. Most people assumed it was somewhere between companion and chaperone, since of course someone like Fen couldn't be expected to so much as remember where her head was if it weren't attached. More fools them. 

The Lambdons and the Graylings both seemed rather forgettable, in a way that made Pat commit the details to memory. In their forays into solving problems so far, she had learned that often the people who seemed most harmless had quite a lot to hide. And if Mrs. Grayling thought to attract more attention from the men than Fen would, well, she would find herself outshot there. 

Pat had liked Archie Curtis better, at least on first acquaintance. He had a no-nonsense practicality she appreciated, still very much the soldier even if he'd been invalided out. And he clearly knew his boxing. Bill had told her a bit about that match with Gilliam, at one point. Boxing was not at all her interest, but she did appreciate people who were good at things they set out to do, and Bill had said Curtis had a reputation for fair play, as well as being a ferocious fighter. 

Daniel da Silva, now, that was not someone she would have expected at this sort of gathering. The rest of them were all being quite British, it was an outdoorsy set, not one given to the various pleasures of Bloomsbury amusements, she'd rather thought. Fen certainly seemed to be enjoying his conversation, which was a point in his favour. 

After supper, Fen gave her the little twitch of her chin that indicated they should keep to public manners for the foreseeable future. Pat fussed over her as a companion should do, making sure she had her shawl and her book before retreating to the bedroom next door, feeling unreasonably sulky. Or perhaps sensibly sulky.

*** 

The long walk and the picnic lunch had been well enough. The weather wasn't bad. Pat did rather begin to regret the lack of Mr. Curtis and Mr. da Silva. She was beginning to see Fen's point about smiling at the latter, he had wit and amusement on his side. And Curtis was predictable, amiable, steady. James Armstrong and Peter Holt clearly thought nothing of stretching their position and power and leverage to their own amusement. Worse, if entirely predictably, they did rather monopolise Fen, leaving Pat to hang back and look foreboding. Neither of them had much intelligence, it was being along with the more daft sort of hunting dog, who had a mind for only one thing. 

It was not that she had difficulty standing around and looking foreboding, but it was not what she would prefer to be doing. In the past two years, she had gotten entirely comfortable with having Fen largely to herself for significant stretches of time, and that looked quite unlikely until they'd left Peakholme, at the very least. One or another of the gentlemen was always lurking about wanting to chat.

Still, she followed along, and made occasional conversation with the other women, and eyed Fen, who she was sure was up to something. Whatever it was, they had no chance to talk privately. There were maids in and out with water, and checking on if they wanted a fire built up, before supper, and by the time they retired, Fen was yawning. 

The following morning, they at least manage to escape Armstrong and Holt. Pat easily outpaced Fen and Curtis, but when she got to the folly, she found Mr. da Silva there. She might well have accused him of lurking on purpose, except of course there was no way to politely say that, and she was not yet sure she wanted to loose the gun of impoliteness. That was Fen's phrase, not hers, and that just made her miss time with Fen more. 

It was as Fen was coming across the field, chatting amiably with Curtis, her copper-brown curls bobbing, that da Silva leaned over and murmured, "You have nothing but eyes for Miss Carruth, that is charming." Pat could not decide what to say back to him. It was entirely true, curse him, but it was also decidedly sharp of him to spot and put quite that way. It made her quite sure she'd given something away, and yet he'd put it in words that could not actually be argued with. Curse the man for being a poet. In the end she folded her arms and glared down toward the pair who were coming up toward the folly. 

"What did he say to you, Pat?" Fen was immediately on her arm as soon as they turned to walk away from the folly, taking a long path around the gardens. Pat slowed her pace to the one Fen preferred. In truth, it wasn't that Fen couldn't keep up, but that the frills and skirts were more of a bother on uneven ground. She walked in silence for a dozen steps, then she said, grudgingly, "Mr. da Silva is very perceptive." And then she repeated what he'd said. 

"Are you jealous, Pat, darling?" Fen sounded amused. "Mr. Curtis is very restful and sensible, but you know he's not you." 

This was undeniably true, but it did not entirely make Pat feel better. Fen drew her into a little woody alcove. "We can't be too long, darling Pat, but you know I love you. The rest of it is all show." 

"Not too long?"

"The staff, the men, they served with Martin Armstrong. Lord Armstrong offered them jobs. I'm sure they're quite loyal. And likely to pass along information." 

"Bother." It came out as close to a curse as Pat usually permitted herself, and Fen smiled, and reached to touch her cheek. "If we talk quietly, we can chat while we're walking, just keep the show up. What do you think of the place?"

"I think Bill was right. There's something queer going on, and I don't mean da Silva. He's honest about what he is." 

"Showy. Very showy, did you see the flower, the first night? And some of his jackets? But honest about it, yes." 

"You don't like Armstrong and Holt, do you?" It came out suddenly pleading. 

"Armstrong will have the title, and probably not in too long." Fen pointed out, her voice considering. "And the estate's not horrible now, and might be quite pretty in a decade. And the telephone exchange is excellent." 

"Fen." It came out plaintive, which was not an emotion Pat cared to show anywhere outside the bedroom. 

"They are both awful, and you know it, and I know it, and we will both play along until we figure out more of what is going on here." 

Pat let out a long breath. "Well. All right. I can keep it up if you can. And you have to deal with them rather a lot more." 

"You just keep looking forbidding, and disapproving whenever either of them decides to see about greater intimacies. 

"Oh, I can do that. I can do that very well." 

***

"You know, I can't figure out the invitations here." Fen was brushing her hair, and Pat was perched on the chair, waiting for Fen to finish preparing herself for a long walk to the limestone caves. "Lunch was rather awkward, wasn't it?" 

"Not the sort of group you'd think one would put together deliberately, is it? I mean, Holt's obvious enough, and the Lambdons, being Lady Armstrong's brother and sister-in-law. And I suppose the Graylings are the same sort of people. But I'm not clear on how Mr. Curtis and Mr. da Silva fit in. He's clearly not here for the landscape, that one." 

Pat snorted. "Well, no. And it's clear the other gentlemen don't think much of him." 

"They have no poetry in their souls." Fen declaimed it, in sonorous tones, and then broke into giggles. "I probably don't either, but he is clever. And I like that. It gives me ideas." 

Pat shook her head. "Come along. Or we'll be late. And less clever gentlemen wish to escort you to see caves." 

Of course, Fen got swept up - Pat had to admire the expertise applied, in a distant and disapproving way. Mr Curtis turned out to be good deal more pleasant company one on one, and she rather enjoyed the chance to ignore the queerness of the party in talking about the details of target and game shooting. He was the sort of man she liked to talk to. Jimmy, when he was not being an idiot, or Bill. It was rather pleasant to consider adding someone else to that list. 

The caves were quite stunning, and made her completely forget the conversation. Suddenly, Pat wanted nothing more than to begin to understand how they worked. They had nothing like it near her childhood home, nor, so far as she knew, Fen's home. Fortunately, the commotion about the caves gave her the chance to reclaim Fen's arm. It made Pat rather want to have spectacles, so she could peer over them disapprovingly, but she was sure they'd be a nuisance most of the time. 

Fen couldn't be dissuaded from asking about that ridiculous book. Pat had become quite sure, in the chat about the guns, that Mr, Curtis must be asked about it really quite often, if he weren't being asked about the Boer War, or carefully not asked about Jacobsdal. But Fen would go after the thing, like the fluffy terrier she could be. And she supposed Fen might rather like a break from Armstrong and Holt monopolising her. 

The details, however, were rather startling. Pat was a practical woman, who saw a lot of sense in burying people in earth, but she supposed there were other customs. Even if the idea of shrouding someone in a stalactite seemed really quite absurd. But if Mr. Curtis said that it was done, his uncle was truthful, she certainly was in no polite position to argue. 

Dinner really got rather raucous, enough so to set Pat's nerves a bit on edge. She was used to a cheerful party, there was nothing wrong with that, and Fen could fill a room with joyful giggles all by herself. 

But something in the evening kept sounding sour notes. Even Mr. Curtis's retelling, with rather more detail, didn't offer much distraction. It was clever of Fen, though, since it kept the focus off of Fen, and prevented Armstrong and Holt from trying to cut the other gentlemen out of the conversation. 

That night, Pat was lying awake, when she could have sworn someone tried the door to Fen's room, the rattle of the knob sounding oddly loud. Fen had locked the door once Travers was done for the night, and Pat had done the same, leaving only the door between them unlocked. And wide open, so that Pat could hear Fen's reassuring little half-snore. It was not the same thing as being curled up with Fen, nothing was, but it was better than being further away, unable to even hear her. 

It made her frown, because she could only assume that it was either someone after Fen's jewels, or after Fen herself. It was the sort of country house that made you fairly sure people must be sleeping in other rooms than the ones they were assigned. Mrs. Grayling and Mr. Lambdon had certainly had that look to them, she'd thought earlier. And she wouldn't put that kind of thing pass Lady Armstrong, if she found someone she liked the look of. 

At any rate, whoever had tried was easily foiled, and she could tell Fen about it later. 

On Sunday morning, there were the usual routines of church, in a strange village, making the necessary pleasantries. Pat shepherded Fen into one of the motor cars, rather glad Armstrong and Holt were giving it a miss. She was tired of both of them. The rest of the day passed in rather tedious boredom, without even da Silva to break up the mood. Fen had glanced at her, when it was announced he had been asked to leave, but they had no time to talk about it, the Armstrongs and Graylings and Lambdons kept Fen and of necessity Pat, quite involved in chatter all the way through to the evening when Fen finally begged an early night. 

*** 

Pat had not quite been able to sleep again, and she was wide awake well before dawn. She was down by the folly, not long after six, when she first caught sight of Curtis. She was still trying to make sense of his posture when he said, as if his world were in pieces. "Miss Merton, in the name of God, as one shooter to another, I need your help." 

Put in those terms, she could scarcely refuse. Looking over Mr. da Silva took her a few minutes, but what she'd learned tending to household staff served her just as well here. She still knew how to sort out if someone had a fever or not. Once that was dealt with, what needed to be done came to her, almost as easy as bringing up her gun and aiming at a target, the line of movements making everything come into focus. 

Mr. Curtis could at least be made to see sense, which made him rather more interesting to her as a friend, once they had sorted out this dreadful business. She did not tell him that she and Fen had been here because of their own suspicions. It would not do any good, and calling Sir Maurice Vaizey - even Pat had heard the name, rather approvingly, from Bill - would summon help much more rapidly than Bill could on his own. 

From there, it was relatively short work to get herself back to the house, declare it was a lovely day for a proper tramp, get Travers to put in a request for sturdy picnic lunch for her, plenty for multiple meals, please, in case she wanted to stay out for tea. That left time for a brief conversation with Fen. 

She asked to brush out Fen's hair, something they sometimes did, which gave her an excuse to speak quietly. Figuring out how to explain it in a way that couldn't be easily overheard had occupied most of her walk back. In the end, she went for murmuring in Fen's ear. 

"Keep looking pleasant, darling. Da Silva was abducted. Armstrong and Holt planned to kill him. Curtis has him in the folly. I'm going there to keep watch today. You be your dear distracting self."

Fen's eyes went wide for a moment, but looking at her in the mirror as Pat kept brushing, Pat thought it would pass easily for a reaction to a bit of gossip. 

Pat bent to the other side, as if rearranging curls. "Holt won't be coming back. Down that deep pit." 

Fen was silent, nodding, but with a set to her lips that Pat couldn't argue with. 

Pat brushed a bit of curl, peering at it, and then bent down again. "They have - don't look - cameras behind the mirrors. They've been blackmailing people. People with influence, Mr. Curtis said. There have been deaths." 

The smile softened a bit. "I can't abide blackmail." Then, louder, she said, "Oh, do leave off, Pat. You do fuss. Go find Travers and your basket, a long tramp will do you good." 

Leaving Fen to do her part took a bit of determination. Pat rather hated being separated from her at the best of times, and all the more so when there were dangerous things in the offing. But she trusted Fen would carry things on her end, now she knew the lay of the land. Fen was brilliant at that, and she'd already been watching for how to tie the wrongness in this house together. And she could improvise like no one else Pat knew. Except perhaps Mr. da Silva. 

She was careful to make sure no one saw her on the way back, even the ever-lurking gardeners, though she had to pause and press into the brush a couple of times as she neared the folly to make sure. Once there, she knocked on the door, and within twenty minutes, she was properly set up to guard the invalid, or whatever he was properly labelled.

He spent much of the morning sleeping uneasily under the blankets, but Pat had brought a book as well as the food and drink and revolver, so that was all right. She kept a cautious eye out to see if anyone approached the folly, but no one did. She could occasionally see people moving around, in the line of sight, but she kept well back from the window. There were a few murmurs in his sleep she did her best to ignore, because they sounded entirely private, and also of an illegal nature. She rather hoped Archie returned the affection, or it would be rather hard on Mr. da Silva, but of course it wasn't her place to say anything about it. Not with these men, anyway. 

Toward noon, Mr. da Silva woke, startling her as she was staring out the window, revolver to hand. From there, the day was taken up with quietly making sure he ate and drank, and was warm enough. He used up rather more of the water she'd brought wanting to wash up, at least his hands and face, but she couldn't deny it must feel most necessary, especially to someone so precise about his personal presentation. 

The fact he was easy enough to manage, however, left entirely too much space for her to worry about Fen and about Archie. And of course about whether they'd managed a scheme to make the phone call and summon the decidedly necessary help. 

He argued that it would be entirely too suspicious for her to be gone for supper, and in the end she had to agree with him. She pointed out that Archie could scarcely get away before late, and Mr. da Silva shrugged, and said he would manage. 

"I feel like I'm missing something." She was checking and rechecking the things she was leaving, and the revolver. 

"Could you put them off the scent, do you think? Make up something about seeing Holt?" 

She paused, turning around to face him. "You are sharp. Where would a good place be?" 

They went back and forth about it for a good ten minutes, until she'd settled on a story she thought she could tell with an entirely straight face, about a bicycle and a flat, and a figure who might have been Holt.

She barely made it back in time to change, but supper gave her a chance to put the story she'd worked up with Mr. da Silva into effect. Thankfully, Mrs. Lambdon was entirely predictable in her disapproval of lady cyclists, which gave the conversation a turn away from the more difficult parts. 

*** 

Again, Pat couldn't say what woke her. There was some sort of noise in the hallway, when she didn't expect one, and she rose and padded to the door, to hear muffled voices. She couldn't tell if it were servants or the Armstrongs or who, but it was enough to make her certain something was afoot, and not just the arrival of the summoned cavalry. Some of it sounded like shouting, certainly like they weren't attempting to keep things quiet. 

She waited until the noises had died down, and then got dressed, in sensible practical tweeds, nothing that would limit her unduly. She eased the door to Fen's room open and woke Fen silently, tapping her on the shoulder, and then whispering in her ear. Fen, clever Fen, got dressed without needing to have it explained, and they sat, the two of them, listening intently. 

When the shots rang out, they looked at each other, and Pat nodded once, murmuring. "Something's up." She gathered up the shotgun she'd kept stored with her private cases, the one even Travers never touched, the Holland and Holland shotgun Fen had bought her as a present last Christmas. Fen, for her part, took out the much smaller Colt ladies' revolver Pat had given her and trained her in. 

Extraordinarily extravagant, and at the moment quite practical, on both sides. They made their way quietly toward the library, as if they'd practised for this for years. In some ways, they had. Fen eased over to peer in the door, and held up one finger, mouthed 

"Lambdon. Wesley." The two men turned, then caught sight of the guns. 

"Hands up. Back away. Now." They managed to get the upper hand quite promptly, and thankfully the men had not managed to get the fire going properly at all. 

It almost went to pieces when Mrs. Lambdon came looking for her husband. Pat had been keeping an eye on the door, as Fen kept the men under control, but Pat couldn't quite bring herself to see Mrs. Lambdon as a threat. At a gesture from Fen, she took over guarding, and Fen went immediately over to show her several pictures she'd turned up. The expressions Pat could see cycled from shock to outrage to anger. Before either of them could stop anything, Mr. Lambdon was twisting and standing, and his wife was snatching up a table lamp to strike him solidly across the temple. 

He had staggered into the hall, and dropped, and Mrs. Lambdon declared she would retire to her room. Mr. Lambdon was breathing, and really, there was not much they could do for him in the current situation, especially since more of the staff might be along any moment, so they left him to the hallway. 

Only then could they make sense of the piles of paper and photographs on the floor. From the ones turned upright, it was quite clear what sorts of blackmail were in the offing. Fen held the gun while Pat searched through, and then changed places. She'd been rummaging for a bit when she stood up, and gestured at something she'd pulled out of the top of one of the piles. 

Pat had only to glance it to nod, and smile as Fen made the envelope disappear down the rather broad expanse of her bodice.

Explaining the envelope to Curtis and Mr. da Silva - including that completely absurd proposal - just made her laugh nearly as much as Fen. But then they were all rapidly separated, as Sir Maurice Vaizey's men swarmed. It was a relief to know other people were seeing to things, and they were safe, but it was also quite frustrating not to know what was happening. 

The next days were rather tedious. The Graylings kept to themselves, leaving Pat and Fen and sometimes Archie to talk or walk or lose themselves in books. Both Pat and Archie did a lot of walking, though almost never together. She and Fen had been thoroughly and unstintingly briefed on what to say, but once Pat mentioned her brother's name, and the matter at Roddington Court, there was a little jerk of a head, and a slightly more agreeable mode of getting through things. 

In the end, they were quite glad to go.

"I do feel sorry for Archie." Fen had tucked her arm through Pat's, as they waited for the train, finally released from the Private Bureau staff car. Fen had charmed them, of course, which was a help, and had gotten them a ride to a more reasonable rail line to get back home. "I wonder if we'll come across them again. Daniel really is quite delightful." 

"You like people who recognise how very clever you are." 

"Well, of course." By the time the train arrived, they had finally settled into talking about what to do with a bit of well-earned leisure. 

## After

"Who else is coming to this blasted thing?" 

They were, for their sins, at what promised to be an awful weekend of people talking art and music and theatre and all the things Pat didn't know nearly enough about. Fen shone in those circles, and it left Pat to hang back and glare at anyone who looked like they might want to sneak into Fen's room. They had come on a fairly routine excursion, nothing sordid, but a woman curious about a young man who wanted to marry her sister, who wanted to know if he was quite as dissolute an artist as he appeared to be.

"You are supposed to look pleased to be invited, Pat, darling. It's quite a coup. Even if we are working on a case."

Pat turned, and bent to kiss Fen's cheek. She had already made sure that they were quite alone - Travers was off seeing to things below stairs - and that there were no mirrors with hidden cameras. "Come along. We'll discover who's here when we get downstairs." 

Pat straightened her collar, and then sighed, following Fen down, putting on the necessary act. They were partway through the introductions when Fen lit up, the shift of her shoulders Pat could tell without even looking. When Pat looked up, she found herself meeting a pair of bright blue eyes, in paler skin, now the tan from South Africa had worn off. Then she heard a particular pitch of voice, and she was saying "Good afternoon, Mr. Curtis." at the same time she was trying to identify exactly where da Silva was in the room. She was now utterly certain something was up. 

The young man, the focus of their investigatory attention, was seated far away from both of them at dinner, and stayed in the billiards room until late evening, so they had had no luck there. He had not been noticeably flirting with the other young women there, nor for that paying more than the appropriate attention to the young men. Archie had been well down the table, and Mr. da Silva beyond him on the other side. It was a significant crowd, more than twenty. 

It took them until the next day, after breakfast, to coordinate a meeting with the two men somewhere they could not easily be overheard, two separate hikes up to a hill that had a lovely view. Pat and Fen had gone first, and they watched the men come up. 

"Fen, Pat, your health." Archie was glowing, looking utterly content with his world, and walking easily. 

"Archie!" Fen squealed with delight, and then she dimpled and beamed. "Mr. da Silva." 

"I think, under the circumstances, you may indeed call me Daniel, Miss Carruth." 

"Fen, please do. At least in private." 

"And Pat, please."

"You were a most excellent nursemaid, Pat, and I regret I was unable to fully thank you for that, before being hustled off." He pulled out a small hip flask, and offered it. 

Pat laughed, and took a sip, "We brought a picnic. I have a reputation for requesting them now, it's most handy." 

"Have you been tending to other men in follies, then?"

"Nothing like you, Daniel. But then no one is quite like you." She was delighted to see the man smile, an honest smile.

"What brings you both here?" They all asked the question more or less at the same time, and Fen threw her head back and laughed. 

"Ladies first." Daniel bowed, with a flourish. 

Pat gestured at the blanket they'd brought up, and they settled down, companionably. "Let me know if you see people coming up this way, do."

Fen followed up immediately, with a "There's a young man, Bartholomew Watson." 

"The artist. Figurative oils with a flair." Of course Daniel had placed him at once. 

"Him. He is interested in the sister of our client, and our client wishes to know what sort of man he is." 

Archie tapped his fingers on his leg, and then set his hand on the blanket, and Pat watched Daniel shift his to just barely touch. "He seemed a reasonable young man." 

"Suspiciously so, actually, now I consider. If we see anything of use, we will be glad to pass it on." Daniel spoke for both of them, and Pat looked up, to see Archie smile at him, companionable. 

"Much obliged." 

"And you? Or is it not something you can talk about?" She watched both of them as closely as she could. 

"Business, of course. A little matter of foreign fingers in local matters. There's a suspicion someone is passing secrets to Germany." 

"And of course, you can't talk about it. If we spot anything odd, we're glad to tell you." 

"Much obliged." That was Archie, his voice rumbling. "Sir Maurice thought you acquitted yourself well at the inquest, by the by."

"I had assumed that since we hadn't heard anything further, it had gone well enough. But I am glad to hear that." 

Archie chuckled. "He did not have an answer to one question, though. What were you doing there in the first place?" 

"Oh, Pat's brother Bill." 

The name didn't help for a moment. "William Merton. Home Office side." Daniel frowned, as he placed him.

"My older brother." Pat agreed. "He had a strong feeling something a bit odd was up. He's a Cambridge man, about your age, Archie, and it was people he knew through his clubs." 

Archie nodded, and then said, "If there's an opportunity, I think I'd enjoy meeting him. He has a good reputation, but of course home and foreign office don't pass the time of day regularly." 

Pat looked up, smiled, and said, "I think that might be arranged." 

Her week was decidedly looking up. Fen, a lovely day, amiable companionship. No shooting in the offing, but you couldn't have everything. 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide! Reading the prompts for this, I was fascinated by wondering why exactly Pat and Fen were at Peakholme in the first place, and what they were doing and thinking during various events in the plot of _Think of England_. 
> 
> Besides Fen being clever, and Pat being sharp, as they will.


End file.
